Literary Anonymous

Dancing in the Ghetto

cirrhosis — Wed, 20 Jul 2005 20:23:06 GMT

Remember what they said cannot be said
About the modern world and its big head?
“Don’t ever let the pressures of the press
Or the mediate media tell you what’s dead”
There’s always a movement in the bowels of society
After all, they dance better in the ghettos
Oh, what brilliant mistakes were made before
Charles Keating, Fawn Hall, and Paula Jones
But still they dance in the ghettos

If you still wonder
               How to shuffle your feet
If you still wish you
               Hadn’t lost your passion
If you get too old
               To let loose and yell
There’s always someone
               Dancin’ lovin’, yellin’ for you

Exhausted from chasing you all day
Can’t go out Friday, I get too tired
From trying to love all who love me
I’m fighting people on fire with fire
I’ve got my invitation to the blues in my back pocket
As I’m knocking on the front door
I invade the room, study the tunes
We’re all too scared to hit the floor
But still they dance in the ghettos

If you still wonder
               How to shimmy shoulders
If you still wish you
               Hadn’t loved and lost
If you get too old
               To let loose and yell
There’s always someone
               Dancin’ lovin’, yellin’ for you

And I’m alone with everyone
No one goes to that place anymore
It’s gotten too crowded
(Still they dance)
And I must have looked like a fool
When my hands got spastic
Shaking hands with you
(Still they dance)
But when it’s straightened out
I know why they don’t scream
They just go out and dance
In the ghettos

If you still wonder
               How to cut the rug
If you still wish you
               Hadn’t settled down
If you get too old
               To let loose and yell
There’s always someone
               Dancin’ lovin’, yellin’ for you

Sanity

cirrhosis — Mon, 30 May 2005 04:38:49 GMT

Seeping through the ironies of luck
Are the crooked smiles of lovers
Justified in their remorse, lamenting
For their once-cherished justice
And the movement of sound has
Devoured the bleeding hearts
Caught between the tragic embrace
Of the lovers’ crooked smiles

Crawling at a shattering pace
I am re-born into what I was
Fleeting sacrifices I have made
Were destined to be mistaken
As mistakes made for you

Trusted by those standing tall
On greased heels and firm knees
Facing the wind with a biting
Vengeance of sentimentality
And the movement of sound has
Enveloped those caught staring
Towards the fleeting abyss of
The lover’s skyward glare

Crawling at a shattering pace
I am re-born into what I was
Fleeting sacrifices I have made
Were destined to be mistaken
As mistakes made for you

And when I settled into dust
I was found to be unharmed
And I was not alone
I was not alone

The Notion of Notoriety

cirrhosis — Thu, 07 Apr 2005 04:04:24 GMT

Now that the remnants of what you are
Have devoured the art of solemnity
Consolation will be sought between
The lingering wisps of love
Caught between the padlocked kisses
Of liars trapped in sweet remorse
Fought for by the sheer desire
Of memories rescued in vain
James Dean is turning in his grave
With a steel-toed wonderment of
The forever cluttered and tamed
Everything ends, nothing ever changes

Now that the notion of notoriety
Is lost among the stifling shards of shame
Triumphant glances will be shot
Towards the vigor of regret
Locked in a tomb of indifference
With haste, we will live on and away
Distraught and fooled by a stingy sage
The staid retain their pestilence
Stranded in the loneliness of
Acting out of taint and jest
Sacrificing the least acknowledged
Everything ends, nothing ever changes

Now that the staple of the affair has
Interlocked the pages of disbelief
The yesterdays will be forgotten
With the tomorrow that will not be
Taught to be the miracle of allure
The whispers disappear unattained
Brought upon by this brilliant mistake
The remnants of what you are bedamned
Fleeting steadfast forgetfulness has
Stricken the passion of the beloved
Disgust of the unexpected lover
Everything ends, nothing ever changes

Short-Suited Romance

cirrhosis — Mon, 14 Mar 2005 04:53:27 GMT

We’re all dealt the bad hand
When we’re lingering in love
So I linger a bit longer
On the smell of your perfume
We’re all hypocritical
When we use the word hypocrisy
So I suppose it’s possible
I’ve misjudged the novelty
Of irony

I left my mark under her chin
Where the cotton meets the skin
I left my last stamp of misguidance
Confusion, pride, and romance
Where the cotton meets the skin

We’ve all been sent careening
Down the blistered sun-scarred edge
Of a certain empty gesture
That is the memory of fleeting
We’ve all been found to be lost
Without a crying shame and
Without a pocket to cry into
Just singing the same damn song
Of irony

I left my mark under her chin
Where the cotton meets the skin
I left my stamp of indifference
Slander, stupidity, and romance
Where the cotton meets the skin

And in a state of foreseeable disaster
I can stammer my way to victory
Stumble timidly like the man
I’ve never been and never will be
Curse my words under my breath
Like the man I never was

We’ll all be merely dancing
When you’ll ask me “How is this fun?”
And that’s when you’ll hear
What I’m screaming at the sun
We’ll laugh at what we did
And mourn what was never done
As we’ve graduated to children
Trying to grasp the idea of love
And irony

I left my mark under her chin
Where the cotton meets the skin
I left my stamp of impotence
Stability, fear, and romance
Where the cotton meets the skin
I left my stamp of silence
Anxiety, anger, and romance
Where the cotton meets the skin

It is probably evident that, since the last time I wrote a song, I have been listening toa lot of Elvis Costello and Paul Simon, and have been influenced by them. A lot.

Ghosts of The House

cirrhosis — Sat, 27 Nov 2004 20:45:01 GMT

It’s spoken through stingy sage that
Sulfur shores were formed by a
Constant river of gin and scotch
Flowing through a desirous heart
Lost among the calamity of passion and
The two-ton secrets of solemnity
Forever existing, no longer sure
Of their own mutuality

It’s been said that one could find
Beneath the chandelier graveyards
A criminal of disasters, a jester for
The final page-turning machines
Sought among the simplicity of insolence
And the stripes along the jaw-lines
Of the breeding grounds, this soil
Isn’t out to stud quite yet

It’s been seen through the thinnest eyes
Of the scourging scores of scowlers
That the heart of Saturday nights
Are littered with the hearts of minds
Caught among the shrill desires of
The callow children believing
In their insolence, yet they
Aren’t the furious end of death

And it's cool and clean as ... sugar-free jazz

dferahgo — Fri, 05 Nov 2004 06:16:31 GMT

Cryztal and I had a lengthy, philosophical couple of sentences last night and decided it would be for the better if litsanon came to an end. It really just never got off the ground like I imagined, although a few people did have a good spin behind the wheel. I'd like to extend my personal gratitude to all of you took part in my "vision": kittenonthekeys, crystal_ivy, abandonedsoul, cirrhosis, hirotheavitar, i_love_tenchi, lunar_endeavor, metlwolf, sheepywonder, rosicrucian, squeebothorass, and whisperstar.

And, of course, a very special thank you to my special friend and lover, i_am_bottled.

x-posted in dferahgo

rebel rebel....

crystal_ivy — Thu, 04 Nov 2004 14:37:52 GMT

David assigned me a poetry project. So I started to write a poem but I broke it into three. And then there is the one that I posted in Crystal_ivy.
Hope you like them.

The Artist
Her face echoed repulsive
a brush stroke here and there
align the nose, sharpen the chin
lighten up her hair.
her personalitys brilliant
but her face has too much quirk
a little more here, a little less there
erase The Artists work

Blue Skies
Once a copper slate
now a purple plate.
The sky once gray and cold
now is blue and gold
ice blue ribbon in your hair
like music whistled to the air
stunning sunlight after rain
does enough to keep me sane.

Mona Lisa
Mona lisa never smiled
as a fair but jealous child
choked with rage, poisoned with hate
she waited to die, but waited too late.

Lady
Wash your hands dear lady
with water, sooth malady
Evanescence, an empty pool
Drained away by death so cruel.

The other one i can't write because my sister is bitching me out. whatever. im sorry for any grammatical or spelling errors..i hate being rushed.
tell me what you think.

Six new poems.

dferahgo — Sat, 30 Oct 2004 22:00:58 GMT

I have been ... bored.

Woman, Tied to Bed

I lie captive under a 25-watt sun.
You've had your way with me for the last time.
I struggle to get your knots undone.

What sin did I commit, what crime
Unwitting in kinetic communication
Mandate I covered in your grime?

I'm sick of being a tool for masturbation,
So I engage in a jihad serene,
Veins strangled with crimson lacerations,

Teeth gritted. I must get clean.
I will rise rinse myself of your spunk.
How the hell did I let you demean

Me like a fool in a County Fair dunk
Pool. You summoned me supple + slender,
Yet I will escape your stageshow trunk.

Spring, rend, shred you, lion-tamer!
But you return. My struggle, now come
To naught, I wither at touch harshly tender.

I relent, and your course is run.
My body is the shared smile, sublime,
Of the mattress as my wrists are undone.

Man, Tied to Bed

Lay your drowsy head on my chest.
I have abused you enough.
I run my guilt through hair, the rest
Of all that female stuff.
I can't repent too much for myself.
For - always bringing you here.
Even when we're out and about,
Can I - should I - take you here?
It's a world I'll never leave,
Except for seventeen second glances
Every time I bring you is a double take.
What does the the world care of one man's stances?
At birth it made my emotions fake.

Touching your cheek while you sleep, I cry.

New Order

Within my regime, sports jerseys will be banned.
While I'm at it, so will Vans.
The widows of the men in flannel will weep
(But women's flannel I'll let them keep -
They are, by far, more sexy.)
Muscle shirts go if the man is too flexy.
Boots or sandals - all else is a flaw.
"Wear as thou wilt" has no place in my law -
Not if men don't care what they wear!
Give women what they want, not only men stare.
Now this notion of gender equality
Seems unequal to me.
Like when a woman doesn't even have to sign for a draft
And can make fun of men all they'd like as daft.
Not that I disagree, quite the contrary -
High school? Try "public bestiary."
Not all that's wrong with the world is men,
you know, or white, but then
When one's got something good one holds tight
And never no mind to someone else's right
To be treated like a human being.
Of course, so few are, it would seem.
The heart of the matter, I guess
is really just as simple as this:
We have to change how we treat eachother,
or, next time, about equality - why bother?

State Street Revival, Minneapolis

Sally up to State Street, children of the shepherd!
(proclaimed the hot and hollow voice)
We are fortified in cardboard.
Buy with us the frankfurt that is his flesh,
The lemonade that is his blood.
Sing with us the festive songs.
Get with us, and get along.

Sally up to State Street, children of the shepherd!
Good is offered only here, evil all without.
We walk the upright line
Between God's justice and the world's decline
Ushered (of course) by the others,
Sisters who love sisters and brother to brother,
Also the corruption, also the diseases,
Also death for which we have immortality.
Yes our festival is the place to be....

(so sang their grand disembodied lark
wolves, you and i, pass on to the park)

Paving the Frontier

Above, the stars light none of what's below.
We settle down, you intent to know
Where from comes the soot upon my brow,

When light you have expressly forbidden;
For the ringtails and wolves back to their dens
would fled, though was I who fed your friends.

The soot is my own concern, I grumble,
Payment for how I work to humble
Myself to please the company you fumble.

Only that and nothing more.

But you lean forward to stare at my brow
And ask, if you had the matches, how
Such lusty soot settled where you would not allow.

From you did I steal no such tool,
I insist, and proclaim I am no fool:
I know for your own safety is your rule.

I'll hurt you not. But you insist
And I relent where you persist,
A secret place, I lament, exists.

That is all, and nothing more.

With one hand you beckon our tent,
Cool, scratchy ground, dead cement,
This place of our mutual advent.

Do you love this not? you ask.
After our hard and youthful task,
In some heathen glen I bask?

And would I rather stay there, then?
Ignore noble work and pretend
Such barbaric dance with civility contend

To amount to something more?

I don't know, I know not, I wail,
Though content I'd be to live in hell
And all who love at some point fell.

You and I, though, laid out concrete
So as to not dirty our acts when discreet
But to dirt returns my bones, my meat.

Alas that I feel such terrible guilt
My words run lame, the confession spilt!
"I lit a fire in the loam and silt."

That - but oh, oh much more!

My feelings churn but your waters appear
Barren and glacial on the unlit exterior.
Your disapproval like a whipwound severe:

"Take me forthright to that place.
Fine or private, you will regardless embrace
What the world doth say of love's old taste."

Once I thought through your eyes I saw
A burning heat both sharp and raw
But such settlement caused it to draw

To end - and to love no more!

Doubting, when I took you to the glen
If the spell should break, the fire end,
Another match I could spend,

And these thoughts moved me as your boot crashed down
And the dying light shone upon your frown
Quickly another place for spark I found.

I rebuilt my fire, crystaline,
And your cold camp, once so dim,
With the rest of the wood, caught in my sin.

I am one with the flames forever more.

The Mountain Carpenter

The old carpenter has too many teeth today,
                  his hair, outdatedly wild,
                  ivory muttonchops, three feet long.
He had no customers. They loved no longer
                  the endearing knobbled knuckles
                  or the conflict calloused palms.
Perhaps he drank too much in his old age, perhaps
                  his expression, grim with wrath
                  and his jealousy, an emerald hammer,
Had pushed them all away. Even that was long ago,
                  the mystic temples, robes, smoke,
                  virgins and animal fat and incense.
He couldn't keep up with the marketing ploys -
                  not with blood, when that was in style:
                  the beserkers wanted to be held a while.
Their demands in buildings changed, he knew:
                  they wanted fences, not grand fortresses;
                  they waned to lie down in pastures, not villas.
Or that was the premise, he never really knew
                  what caused trusty stone's downfall
                  or the plywood ascension.
Who goes and gets himself slaughtered like that,
                  anyway? Not to mention - a fellow capenter,
                  nailed to some god-damned two by fours,
Hoisted on a hill. Might have had a good view,
                  some prime real estate, somewhere
                  you'd want to build a mead hall.
But even that was long ago. Now you used
                  steel beams as wide as an arm
                  to hold up a tower - and no more!
Corinthian columns turned over in their masoleums,
                  knowing they had been replaced in
                  the new buildings with plaster. Like cake.
There were mantras, too, about plumbing
                  and wires and where your doors went,
                  your windows, your lights - maddening
Esoteric business. Less mystical now by far, than
                  his weight-strained arches, aqueducts
                  emblazoned with sphinxes and leopards.
Maybe when these buildings die in plane old rage
                  ancient feelings dependable and eternal,
                  then it'll go back to being his age.
He still looks at himself in the Olympean pool every day.
                  Wonders if he should gel his beard.
                  Wonders what he might then say.

Graciella

crystal_ivy — Sat, 30 Oct 2004 17:39:55 GMT

Graciella of the purple down
bathing in beauty softer than sound.
Crowded in by dancing demons
she lacked nothing to believe in.
Driven wild by pre-pubescence
love was yearning for the essence.
Silent, pure, pretty but plain,
she did her work, never complained.
When sunlight dawned on her pretty face,
happiness vanished without a trace.
Her life knew joy, only in bed
where dreams brought memories long since dead.
A cure for solitude was plainly found
in a dreamers love song, a lovely sound.
All she wanted was protection
but ended up searching for perfection.
a lover, dreamer, and a poetess
she held herself, yearning for tenderness.
her life was a story, an open book
encased in a love song, a word, a look.
She wrote it out one day in a letter
craving for love, she thought she'd be better.
Crying alone, she wrote her epitath,
"A perfect lady, a perfect death."

I'm still not happy with it. Something is amiss...
So have I thouroughly depressed everyone? Yeah It's what I do best.
I really like this poem because it's based on basicly a mixture of that girl that noone sits next to only because she never talks, and...well...Rachael.
I'm sorry, I'm obsessed with writing poems about her. I love her so much. For those of you who don't know her she is forever_silent.
she is my best friend ever. hope you like it. sorry im flooding you guys here but im on a creative streak.
and if you think its a bit scetchy, keep in mind that i wrote this while footballs were whizzing over my head threatening my life.

I'm with stupid

crystal_ivy — Thu, 28 Oct 2004 19:35:34 GMT

Hey. For anyone who is participating in the Corrupt Nursery Rhymes Theme , a good website to go to is www.nurseryrhyme.com</b>.

Now I am going to do the best I can.

Hey, mister, mister
the man with the riddle
went and killed the moon
you though it was funny
when the policy shorted
your mind ran away too soon.

I don't know...maybe not.

Hey...everyone should listen to the song It's Oh So Quiet by Bjork.
I love it!

Oh and PS. Thanks David. I am a dinkus

a fun little corruption

dferahgo — Thu, 28 Oct 2004 14:43:27 GMT

Marry, marry.... - quite contrary!
- How does your god ingrow?
When silver sells, and crock law-spells
The petty maids control.

-----

Let's declare a Corrupt A Nursery Ryhme theme, shall we? As always, being on-topic is encouraged but not manditory. (I'll even expand it to include other kinds of corruptions, I just thought the nursery ryhme idea was fun.)

dferahgo — Wed, 27 Oct 2004 10:14:40 GMT

"The State"

The state of matter's in a flux.
The state of the union is the crux
Of all of our oppression.
Poverty is all that stops the bucks
From trampling, indeed it sucks
To be a classless American.

The state of your mind is revolting
When you spend all your time consulting
The television for company.
The snake in your head is molting
Can't believe you don't find it insulting -
It's the end of your liberty.

In a dismal apartment, Windy City,
I lurk in the dark and sip coffee.
The alley is wet with static
Of a universe ceasing to be.
Like any system spreads to entropy.
No sense in being a fanatic,

Clinging to this or that philosophy.
All the slogans once free
Now war prisoners
used against us
every one incorporated
desperate destroy
refuse
they can't take away what we don't want, embrace
them and
self-destruct

Doctor

crystal_ivy — Tue, 26 Oct 2004 21:14:01 GMT

the pain comes fast
quick as sugar melts on the tongue
slow and easy
dripping down
his heart bleeds
his arms are filled with an ancient remedy.
stick it to me, doctor
take my life with the giving
steal my breath from my lips
i take thee
only thee
make the end count
make the last moment a moment of ecstasy.
take from me the will to live,
if only a chance to die in the winter
of an addiction far too hungry for the taking.
lovely and greedy for the making.
far too delicious to give
far too dangerous to keep.
far too....far too....far too....far......

new poem

crystal_ivy — Tue, 26 Oct 2004 19:57:01 GMT

Streets
The city needs more sidewalks
more hills and piney groves
more churches with little old ladies
and their lead cased cash registers.
the city needs more people
not eyes, a mouth, a chin.
the city needs more laughter
not television, remote control, order in.
the city needs more family meals
more daddy read this one!
not daddy..can i go?
the city needs what urbanites never got
the city needs more love

kittenonthekeys — Tue, 26 Oct 2004 19:54:11 GMT

Autumn always gives me the melancholies
I'm feeling indescribable
A tear or two well up when I heard the news
The world it doth mock us
a reasonable sounding man
floating in a warm bubble bath
- share the spotlight!

((Follows suit))

oh my goodness!

crystal_ivy — Tue, 26 Oct 2004 18:34:37 GMT

Hello fellow literaries..
I am really excited right now.
I have just discovered a new kind of poetry.
Now before I tell you and before you think this is an odd sort of plagiarism hear me out.
You know how people take photographs and even though they are taking a scene out of nature, life, it is their own work?
well I have discovered something similar.
Even though some people simply don't have poetry in them, they speak it all the same. They are just not aware. I wrote a poem taken from snatches of what people say in Livejournal. You might see a few words of your own. Most of it is my own though...ego i guess.
I hope you like it as much as I do.

Notice the Blank

Unfortunate Events
I don't think I care
there is a secret love of mine.
Theres nothing romantic
i am speaking of a certain kind of awesome
stripped forest, with snow on the ground
Naked..within a realm of humilation
noone will touch it
god, what if I fail
i never have passion
everyday things are changing
my body is stiff and sore
what hours I have
notice the blank

cross posted in crystal_ivy

dferahgo — Tue, 26 Oct 2004 17:01:33 GMT

View Poll: Poll of Doom

Response poetry. (It's not that great. -_-)

dferahgo — Mon, 25 Oct 2004 09:44:40 GMT

I admit, I like writing poetry that is kind of a response to more famous poetry. It's fun to feel like you're bickering with the revered greats, even if they're dead (often long dead) and can't exactly bicker back.

Partly this poem is in response to Frost

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

but mostly, I figure, it's in response to those shitty motivational posters various institutions like to hang on their walls. (When I get a classroom, I'll be the comic-strip-hanging kind of teacher, not the motivational-quotes-hanging sort of teacher. Although I know teachers like that who rock hard [hi Kat!], it's not my cup of tea. And I do have one exception, this really cool life quotes poster. Eh!) You know the kind: "Rather than walk the road already paved, go where there is no road and MAKE YOUR OWN." Dun-dun-dun.

So anyway, here's my response-poem.

-----

"Where There Is No Road," by David Puthoff

In that hoary wood
I found your frosted road
less - yet more, now, travelled.
Tempted
I was to walk it.
To add to those footsteps,
hundred following yours,
my own.
Yet,
I remembered your words.
I passed the road now travelled
to go and make my own.

Everywhere I went in that dusky wood
A footprint lay where I knew not it should.

Others, I saw, had heeded your advice.
Many.
I grew frustrated, looking for a road my own.
Only, with every branch I lifted,
I found
a soda can, a sandal strap, a used condom,
all left by countless careless pilgrims
of individuality.
Fine, then.
Fuck your roads.
I will climb a cliff, I thought,
a road suitable only for madmen.
The rocks bite my fingers.
I am thrilled by the enlightening descent
thrilled by the inkblot of my body
after the ascendant fall.

Here's a little song I wrote, might want to sing it note by note

crystal_ivy — Sat, 16 Oct 2004 22:42:45 GMT

I spent three straight years
in the kitchen of hell
wondering what life is
who’s gonna kill
me in the end.

Wandering around
with a spoon and a knife
wondering who God is
what is life
I’ll tell you now

The moon aint setting
on a dirty day.
We need to find one more
sinner to pray
I’ll tell you now.

Apathy and entropy
and Heaven knows what
goes on with a tv
and a soda pop gut.
I’ll tell you how

I lived three years
in the kitchen of hell,
wondering who will save me
and what I can sell.

I heard a man say,
"To the promised land
I’m going tomorow
with my fingers in the sand."

God loves children
and their teenage mothers.
Jesus loves sinners
and the lost confused brothers.

So let me tell you
all about the kitchen of hell.
I loved there for three years
and I can tell

Noone passed go
and gets in free
but life helped me learn
and God helped me see

That even the sinners
and the haters get love
All from a man
who was sent from above.

So let me tell you
all about the kitchen of hell
cooking like an egg
in a Texas dry spell

Walking around
with a question and a tale
All about God
and the kitchen of hell.

[working title]

dferahgo — Fri, 15 Oct 2004 12:32:11 GMT

When Byzantium lies in dust
Where will you be, o voice?
O scarlet songbird notes,
What gaudy hearts will hearken?
For four thousand years the city stands
Each architect building high,
Indeed, highter still and madly
When built upon adobe backs,
Steel girders through ionic
Columns and down into dusty thatch.
So stands your fable city, each Age
Vomiting up the next.
Atop each edifice gold does shine
But sparingly and below, in sewers,
In alleys, in holes and lost homes,
Not a scrap of gold adorns a pen,
Nary a ripe ruby in a Pharoah's eye.
Of course it has all been taken.
The earth spills no new gold, all is
Taken, robbed, from those before.
Today's architect was yesterday's Vandal.
Today's Goths will be tomorrow's Wright.

Eternity's gold holds no value in
Rotten tombs of yesteryear;
Those who pillage, rape, and plunder,
not the dead, hold gold dear.
So crow your wretched song now, o bird,
Despairing not in your endeavor;
Take comfort in how we value you
And in that nothing lasts forever.

Twist

crystal_ivy — Wed, 13 Oct 2004 18:32:40 GMT

Make me an offer I can't refuse.

That night you told me you loved me
I thought I had it all.
With pearls and diamonds round my neck
I thought I had it all.
But then you told me you’d leave me.
If he came round again.
I told you I didn’t know him
You just hit me again.
I knew that fatal day would come
when you’d get bored with me
You’d make up a silly excuse
and throw away my key.
I wanted you back so badly,
i was at a loss for words.
But then it all just came to me
How I would get you back.
I would steal your golden pistols
and take you home with me.

I remember dferahgo saying that we should make a huge story togethor, or something along those lines. You know, we each write a paragraph in response to eachothers paragraph, kind of like a long line...and then we could have a story with a combination of talents! I am not sure at all if that is what David meant but that is what I gathered from it. Anyone for it?

A Little Change Will Do You - David S. Puthoff

dferahgo — Wed, 13 Oct 2004 13:40:27 GMT

This is
the only minted silver coin
of its kind.
Silver,
it's usually passed up for gold.
It's marred with typos,
welts (you can pass off
as stretch marks;
expansion of retraction of
economy) and as such
it proclaims the Yeer
of its Lurd to be
Nineteen Eighty Seven.
This coin
(not yet infamous)
will be known
as the January coin,
warm to look at,
cold to the touch,
until crossed into your palm.
I'm sure they meant for

an eagle to grace
one side
A president to grace
the flip side.

Instead

the Lurd is represented
by a cavorting goat.
The country, by a scorpian,
facing down.

You flip this coin and
nine times out of ten it'll
put its cheery face up.
But it'll hide
the secret scorpian stinger.
Though I am not one
to collect coins
(worthless staple of society,
I might as well collect paperclips)
this one cost a great deal of
nothing. I traded Things I didn't
want anyway like
an entire union of two states
(hot and cold plastered
to the same dull yellow coin).

I can buy more with this worthless
coin, buy
but spent it will never be.
I can buy passage across that river
and on the other side the ferry machine will have
spit my coin back out to me.

And though one day
this coin will be famous, valuable, and rare,
to me it will always be my coin
minted
Nineteen Eighty Seven
"Almost legal" tender, tender still
than any quarrelsome quarters, quiet and empty.

And though it has passed through many hands
and worn by callous thumbs
I was the first to pocket this coin
for the fortune it would become.

Mortardom

cirrhosis — Tue, 12 Oct 2004 16:07:07 GMT

I leave this uncertain world
In moon-lit harmony, where
Desperate pleas have fallen
From the tongues of destiny
I felt so alone in the land
Of my unfinished dreams
But I felt so complete when
Paris burned to its knees

We’re lit up like a New Orleans
Funeral, and we keep daggers in our boots
‘Cause when your heart is frozen
You’ve got nothing else to protect

Estranged in the darkest hour
The is how I’m freed, and I’ve
Borne these blood-shot clouds
For a needle of my youth
I’ve felt so alone in the land
Of impaled mountain tops
But I felt so complete when
Cairo was raped and tortured

We’re lit up like a Las Vegas
Sacrifice, crippled by the words
We whispered into brick walls
Still I shine like a new dime

And caught between the hurried
Gasps of idle smoke-screen machines
The world shuttered for a moment
And swallowed the rusty remnants of
The serpents of pestilence and
The vessels of truant heresy

I leave this uncertain world
Before the muttering gaze of
The unadorned, and Romeo is bleeding
A river of nitrate denials
I’ve felt so alone in the land
Of a brand new callous creed
But I felt so complete when
Moscow was found murdered

We’re lit up like a Hollywood
Suicide, Our gorgeous malaise
Surrendered for our badge of steam
Worn proudly on our torn sleeves

dferahgo — Mon, 11 Oct 2004 07:09:10 GMT

Down in front

Hey Down-In-Front,
you're ruining my movie.
You're talking so loud
I can't hear myself write.
It's a private showing - okay?
Wait for the DVD release
Because this is uncut and unclean.
Save your praise for the deleted scenes,
What treat you think you're getting -
And butt out of here.
I don't know how you got in.
I don't know why the director
Won't just throw your sorry ass out -
Warm artist's heart, trembling to break,
Or hurt - you read too much into it
Like a warlock splitting apart a bird
To muse out of the entrails
Whatever possibilities you fancy.
Put your hands down, fool,
Shaking with adoration and longing.
If you're so desperate for a share of cheek
I've got two of my own - on your knees!
Are you going to write an editorial?
Is that it, you fucking fake?
Are you going to take the art
Made for me and debase it,
Use the same words regurgitated
By countless audiences before, tell them
What they should think, what words to use
When they are passionate, perpetuate lies
Like fate, and peace, and free fucking love?
Give me a break already
(before I give you several, starting with your face).
This isn't some romantic comedy
It's our private drama; it means something -
And it isn't for you.
You've got the wrong bird.
I suggest you leave the way you came in.
Otherwise
I'll bring new meaning to that
Red door, its luminecent neon green letters.

-----

X-posted to dferahgo

Need feedback.

lunar_endeavor — Sat, 09 Oct 2004 21:13:15 GMT

Second draft was already run through my poetry class; need feedback on the latest draft before submitting it to the campus literary magazine.

For those who like background, I took poetic license with events in the life of an already fictional character, and mixed it liberally with various oddments of astronomy and physics. This was the result.

You are asking your half-empty champagne glass

If I am still angry with you.
Honey, I'm a girl who likes a challenge.
I could resent the sky.
You with your crooked tie,
your downcast puppy eyes,
that's no challenge.

We had our swansong.

*

They're right when they say
it can only end in tears.
Not that I cried so much
as a single constellation
let alone a galaxy.

*

We should have known better.
Girls, never date an artist;
he traps you in his lines.
And you, honey, you should
never have liked a girl
who is handy with her
hammer and wrench.
Those girls don't need a man.
They'll fix your sink
but not your life.

And they know better than to try.

*

In Denmark there is a story of swans
who fly too far north,
become trapped in the polar ice.
Struggling to break free,
they splinter the moonlight
with their wings,
throw the Northern Lights
into the sky.

You and I both know:
there's nothing so beautiful
as a cry for help.
Even when it goes

unanswered.

*

I saw it ending
even though I loved
when you put me
on your shoulders—
borrowed height,
borrowed flight.

Six feet closer to the stars.

*

Once, you nervously realized
I could break your wrist like glass.
I heard it ending then, too,
my hand over your heart
all faltering and false bravado

knowing exactly what I could break
in return.

*

Even the good times
when you put your hands
on my shoulders and whispered,
I want to be your perfect circle
your satellite in orbit,
I knew it was ending,
just as I kow an orbit
is never a circle, but
an uncertain ellipse—
absolutely imperfect.

*

I didn't want a satellite.
Better to be a solar wind,
a haze of charged particles,
the light in your Northern sky.

*

It doesn't matter.
My dark, distant sun,
you nickel-and-dimed
my patience to its end.

We were cygnets
pretending to be swans.

*

I knew it would end
even that first day
when you asked your sketchbook
for my phone number—
I saw it all, the fights
the late phone calls,
the roses on 'happy Saturday.'

I knew it would end—
It took the universe
twenty billion years
to learn what I've learned
in twenty.
It begins with an unrepeatable
singularity, a first cause,
the hot, dense brightness
of meeting.
After such a bang,
there is only the long, endless
growing apart.

Stars never come back together.

*

I knew, and I gave you
the number anyway, in the name
of all the things I didn't know:
the way, after the last fight,
you paused by the door
(I pretended not to notice)
and slipped one
black satin high-heeled shoe
into your pocket.